A storm is rising up
in the south,
and it is softly singing,
singing,
singing my name.

I can hear its voice
in the wind
that whips through my hair
as I'm standing on
this mountaintop.

I can feel it in
the raindrops that
hit my bare shoulders,
not hard enough
to sting,
gentle enough to caress.

The wind and the rain
and the storm are
singing my name.
The grass is bowing
before me, honoring
those who stand upon
the mountaintops
in full wrath of the storm.

And so, before the wrath
of the storm in the south,
I stand, the master
of my own soul first,
then the master of
everything around me.

If I am the master of myself,
then how can the wind and
the trees and the storm not
know my name?